Texts From Gotham
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Drabbles inspired by the Texts From Last Night website.
1. Chapter 1

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_(773): My ex-fiancee UPS-ed me a sixer of tall boys, and a fifth of bourbon for christmas, from halfway across the country. What does this mean?_

Tim looks in the box again but still fails to find a note or anything even vaguely note like. Just the alcohol, the packaging, and the packing slip with Tam's neat hand done in blue ink. He didn't even know Tam was in Illinois. He doesn't know _why_ she's there.

He flips his phone and thinks about calling her up to ask her, but is honestly too afraid he'll get that judging silence that means she's mentally calling him all different kinds of an idiot. An inattentive idiot, because she probably did tell him she was going out of state and why she was doing it. Tim's well aware that his mind is primed to catch a very specific type of relevant information even when he's not really listening to what's being said, and that vacation plans are not very relevant to that filter.

His phone chimes. Several more times than it should, and Tim unlocks it to see that Dick's -as usual- shared the conversation. Tim groans as Jason and Steph send him almost identical texts right on top of each other. Something about removing sticks that he deletes without looking too closely at them. He opens up a mass text and starts typing his standard 'hate you all' response. He gets halfway through it before having to add names to the text because Dick's 'accidentally' texted Roy and Gar. Again.

By the time it's done there's a large enough list that it takes a full minute to go through. Tim still doesn't know why Tam's sending him alcohol, but he appreciates it and has no intention of sharing it with Dick like he thought he would when he first sent the text.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_(734): Who suggested the eggnog wet t-shirt contest last night like whose idea was that_

_(517): Speaking_

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean dried eggnog out of carpet?" Tim's not yelling, but he's got that little hitch at the end of his sentence that means the wrong words can change that really fast.

"Uh," Kon rolls over on his bed and scratches the back of his neck as he looks at the clock he's been trying to ignore. It's only 11 AM which isn't too early to be up but is definitely too early to be cleaning up after the party from last night. "I'm gonna guess and say it's very hard?"

"'Very hard' is what Gar's going through now trying to get eggnog out of his chest hair," Tim says and his voice is lower which means Kon chose the right words to say. A victory, because Kon's really good at getting Tim to yell without meaning to. "The carpet is a whole other level difficulty. As in, get out of bed and come down here now. We're ripping it out before this stuff can start to spoil and stink up the Tower."

"Dude," Kon starts to complain then thinks better of it. Not fast enough to say he's on his way though.

"Or," Tim's voice drops doing that half growl thing it does when he's getting ready to shake someone down for information. "I could come up to your room with the left over eggnog and show you what the problem is."

"Fine, just let me get dressed," Kon groans and rolls out of bed. Looking around for the jeans he's sure he dropped near the bed. "You don't need to threaten me."

Tim hangs up and Kon pulls on the only slightly wrinkled jeans. He pockets his phone and gets up. Wrinkling his nose as he steps on something slightly wet. His shirt from last night wadded up in a still wet ball. He picks it up and gags at the sickly sweet smell that's starting to come off it before holding it out and away from himself.

Yeah, alright, fine. He's willing to admit it might not have been the smartest idea in the long run, but he's still going to maintain that it was an _awesome_ plan when Starfire decided she didn't want to waste any of the drink afterwards.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_(804): Can we make 2014 the year of no unsolicited dick pics?_

Tim stares in horror at the text. It's time stamped as sent sometime after one in the morning which is well after when Steph cracked open that second bottle of vodka. It doesn't really matter _when_ Tim sent the text though. It's been sent and there is nothing he can do now to erase it. No way to wipe it from the phones of everyone he sent it to, because drunk Tim is a mess who either can't hit send or can only hit it after adding every single person in his contact list.

"Give me your phone," Steph says eventually after she's done laughing, because they're both well aware of the fact that Tim's only friends with assholes. "We'll switch for the day."

Tim doesn't trust the gleam in her eyes one bit, but he trusts the people he sent that text to even less. The only reason Tim hadn't woken up to a text bomb of dick pics has more to do with the fact that most of them are probably still asleep than any restraint on their part.

"How about longer?" Tim hands the phone over with only a little misgiving and accepts the pink polka dotted thing Steph uses to mess with people's heads. Just in time as Tim's phone chimes with a text the second Steph has it.

Steph's fingers fly over the screen and she holds the phone up expectantly. Her mouth turning up into a _leer_ as she stares. "Ooo! Superboy manscapes, _nice_."

"Yeah, let's say a week," Tim shudders and very firmly shies away from thinking about anything Steph's saying as the pics start coming in.

"Roy Harper is Arsenal, right?" Steph asks as Tim gets up to stagger his way into the bathroom to shower off the scent of vodka. She's settled in on the couch and her thumbs are working the screen in a way that's not just her opening texts as they come in. "I'm sending that to Cass. She likes piercings."

Tim lurches faster as Steph suddenly starts laughing again, "Oh, god, Damian's demanding to know what a dick pic is!"

He makes it into the bathroom but doesn't manage to shut the door fast enough to block out her saying, "Never mind! Jason's volunteering to explain it all to him."

Tim wonders, as he steps into the shower, if it'd be possible for him to live without a cell phone. Logistics aside, he's sad to realize he really can't.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_(506): That makes 14 Xmas cards already! Middle aged people are really nice to their dealers._

"I mean," Jason turns the card over to look at the posed family picture again, "what the fuck else do they do? Invite him over for dinner? Name a kid after him?"

"Welcome to suburbia," Tim says from where he's tossing an honest to fuck file cabinet. "Where buying off the shady stranger on the corner will get you arrested in five seconds flat, but inviting the dealer over for poker won't get a second look."

Jason goes back to ripping the man's mail open. Looking for anything that might give them a clue where the guy's gone to ground, and finding nothing except more cards. He opens one envelope and gets glitter all over his hand. It's another family picture of an average white family, and these ones apparently let their six year old go at the thing with glue and glitter. "Are you fucking serious?"

"A dealer selling out of his car would get eight different nosy grandma's calling the cops on him out here," Tim straightens up and goes back tot he desk where he's jacked a program in to let Oracle mine the thing. "Kids selling out of their parent's basements last a bit longer, but eventually gossip gets them closed down or their parents get snubbed at a bake sale and do it themselves."

Jason snorts and eyes a card with the Virgin Mary on it. There's a personalized message urging the dealer to find god, and Jason wonders if it's one of the nosy grandmas that sent it or an actual family member. "It's just weird as fuck."

Tim shrugs and begins to disconnect wires from the laptop. "Just wait. If we don't find him in time there's going to be a lot of outrage over the inner city 'problem' spilling into the 'peaceful' suburbs. All of which will neatly skirt the fact that the loudest people are the ones who bought the most drugs."

Jason rolls his eyes and tosses the cards onto the floor. Disgusted at the fact that Tim's right about the hypocrisy as he is with the gold glitter still clinging to his gloves. "I got nothing."

"O might be able to give us something," Tim heads out to the back door they'd come in through, "but it'll be a while. Up to seeing how many people will call the police on us on our way back?"

"On top of the five that've already called?" Jason can hear sirens in the distance. A reassuring sound that's been absent the entire time they've been tossing the house. "Sure. I'm guessing three."

"Six," Tim says just before they're out. His grin a white flash in the night. "The first five have been calling around to gossip so more people are awake and looking out their windows."

Oracle later informs them that the number was five, and Jason swears it's only that many because Tim deliberately didn't run as fast as he could.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_(912): Dude for real though, we gotta stop getting hammered and kissing gay guys._

"Or," Bart says, and there's a tone that he gets. Like a warning to everyone in hearing distance that what's about to come out of his mouth is a _very bad idea_. Kon is sadly, very familiar with that tone, and his recognizing it has come at the expense of years of figuring it out the hard way. "We could do it more!"

"No, Bart," Kon rubs his face as he holds back the urge to groan. Bart takes groaning as a sign that he's winning and usually redoubles his efforts. "That's the _opposite_ of what we should do. Dude, we seriously need to stop! No more kissing gay guys, alright?"

"But why?" Bart's face is unreadable, and Kon seriously misses the days when he never had to guess about what his friend was thinking. "Is there something wrong with gay guys?"

"_No_," Kon also misses the days when he could count on Tim being around to, if not say the right thing then to at least say something that wouldn't make Kon look like an asshole. "I'm just saying we should stop because," because if Cassie's eyebrow when he comes in from bar nights goes any higher it'll get stuck that way and he likes her face the way it normally is. But that's an asshole thing to say too and it's a new year. He's trying to be less of one. "Because it's a dick move to be cock teases like that."

Which is actually a valid point he hadn't thought of before, and kinda makes him feel assholish all over again for all the drinks he's accepted.

"It's not teasing though," Bart says immediately and Kon catches the hint of a blush. There and gone too fast for most people to see.

Kon blinks and thinks. It's not a hard thing to do, and it doesn't hurt him like Tim seems to think it does. "Bart?" He starts out slow, feeling his way and trying to appear open and supportive or whatever. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

Bart looks at with his sometimes eerie gold eyes. Like he's growing a second head and only the power of his stare is keeping it from eating Kon. Kon reaches up to pat around and make sure that's not the case.

"No Kon," Bart eventually says with a sigh that speaks entire volumes of exasperation. "Why would you ever think I'm trying to tell you something?" Bart stands up and flips one end of a pink, sparkly scarf over his shoulder that a drag queen had given him the night before. Her matching pink nails running through Bart's hair as she cooed over how much of cutie he was. "Now, come on, we've got a few minutes to get to the bar before the margaritas go half price."

"Fine," Kon lets the matter go and resolves to get Tim to bring it up later. All this waiting for Bart to come out on his own and declare he's gay or bi or whatever is getting annoying. Tim's the one who insisted they do whatever it takes to make him comfortable with it all and Kon had agreed because Tim's the smart one of them and usually knows what he's talking about even though Kon doesn't think it's necessary.

Bart knows he's their friend. He knows they'll have his back no matter what, and that isn't going to change anytime soon. No matter who or what he might like. He's still Bart and as far as Kon's concerned nothing's changed at all, but Tim's been pretty insistent on this.

Doesn't mean Kon can't bitch about it. _Tim_ should be the one at the bar next to Bart, or on the dance floor dealing with getting his ass pinched and his arms petted. Kon just wants to sit in a corner with a beer and only get up to block any of the really seedy looking creeps from making a move on his bud.

He'll even sit with the drag queens, because they're _viciously_ funny and Kon's really starting to like them. He follows the flicker of pink and ignores the laughter he can hear from Cassie's room, and how come she's exempt from this anyway? "Let's go get drunk."

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	6. Chapter 6

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_(803): If I showed up at your door with pizza and a bottle of tequila wearing nothing but chaps and a fireman helmet, would you send me away?_

There's a long silence then the sound of clicking keys before Tim cautiously asks, "Are you standing outside my door right now?"

"No," Dick's quite comfortable on his couch and isn't moving any time soon. "Later though."

"I might give you a five minute head start before calling the police," Tim says. Dry and so obviously lying. He wouldn't call the cops, but he might drop a tip off to Vicky Vale which is answer enough.

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"After taking the tequila, yeah, I would," Jason answers, promptly and honestly. "The real question is; would you dare show up outside _my_ door in nothing but chaps and a fireman's helmet?"

Which is a damn good point actually. Dick's sure he wouldn't make it through the streets alive and trying to roof jump in that outfit kind of makes his balls want to shrivel up and hide. He grimaces, "Touche."

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"Do you know how much money I could make for pictures of that?" Stephanie asks after laughing. "Yes, do it! I need some Christmas money."

"Christmas is over," Dick feels obliged to point out.

"And now the stores have to get rid of the stuff that didn't sell in time," Steph says and Dick can hear something scraping in the background. "So, when're you bringing me pizza and tequila? I might have to go out and get batteries for the camera before you get here."

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There's a pregnant pause where Dick can feel Bruce thinking about how to answer. A sigh and the muttered wondering of why he even bothers that all his children are subjected to, or some flippant remark only appropriate to his Brucie charade. Dick's grinning and fighting hard not to laugh at the pained expression he just knows has to be on Bruce's face as the silence drags on longer and longer. If he can get the visual feed from this encounter Dick'll have so won.

"Richard?" Alfred's voice comes through the phone line. Crisp and clear and Dick chokes on icy panic. "You have a question for me?"

"Uh," crap. Bruce won. The cheater. "No, no. I got the answer, uh, thanks."

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"After taking the pizza, yeah, I would," Roy says and he doesn't even sound scandalized or phased by the question. "Lian doesn't need to see her Uncle like that. She's too young. Wait until she's in college to see your ass."

"Uh, how about I wait until never?" Dick asks because he hadn't thought of Lian when he dialed.

"I wish," Roy says and Dick can hear Lian in the back ground. All excitement and the word 'Daddy' the only clear part of it. "But I'm being realistic here. She's going to get old enough to get into a Titan's party eventually."

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There's a long, pointed silence during which Dick can _feel_ the stare Babs is giving him through the feeds she has of his apartment. "Never," she eventually says. Amused beyond all reason. "Should I call the girls and tell them to bring all their dollars?"

Because Babs would sic her Birds on him if he did that. Dick grins and stretches out even further on the couch, until he can feel his spine pop. "Just don't let Steph take any pictures."

"And share my profits of selling pictures of you on the black market?" Babs laughs and it's reassuring until he realize she's not actually joking. "Never. Make sure you get me pepperoni."

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	7. Chapter 7

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_(256): Dude. Photoshop a Santa hat on your mug shot and send it as your Christmas cards._

A card is placed on the table next to him. Bruce finishes adjusting the spectrometer before turning to look at it. It's off white and is the standard size for a commercially bought card. He picks it up and notices there's no return address. "What's this?"

Alfred, hasn't moved an inch from where he stood to give it to him. He's unnaturally stiff and his lips are tight in that way they get when one of the children has done something he disapproves of. "I do believe it's supposed to be a Christmas card."

Bruce eyes it and wonders, again, why. Why did he ever decide to take Dick in? Because Dick is the start of all this madness, Bruce is sure of it. He reaches in the already open envelope and pulls out the card.

It's completely generic. Green with a red Santa on the front and slits cut into the back of the card. Evenly placed so that a photo can be slid inside of it. A Hallmark logo graces the back but there's no barcode. So it was bought as a box of multiples.

Bruce opens the card, and ignored the printed text that says 'Ho Ho Ho' on one side. Zeroing in on the picture instead.

It's Jason. A three by four, glossy picture of Jason scowling at the camera while holding a placard stating John Doe and his prison number. A badly edited in Santa hat flops to the left, almost covering one of his eyes and some of the bruising.

Mug shots. His son is sending him a mug shot for a Christmas card. Bruce feels very old in that moment and very close to a great many suffering parents he's seen over the years. Mostly because, despite it being a _mug shot_, he can't help but feel pleased that Jason's sending him a card.

Bruce isn't quite sure when his life spiraled into this kind of madness, but he thinks it's about the time he let Dick in through the front door.

"Put it on the mantel," Bruce finally says and hands the card to Alfred who is probably going to take a car and _hunt Jason down_ for this. "Put it next to Damian's."

Damian's is a construction paper construct with designs the boy obviously didn't do himself on the front, and a scathing block of words on the inside questioning the value in such a childish activity that Bruce only _hopes_ he didn't voice out loud. Otherwise, next year is going to be very interesting when he gets called into the school. Again.

"Very well, sir," Alfred turns and walks away, and Bruce thinks about warning Jason so that he'll at least not be in the worst part of the city when Alfred does run him down.

He thinks about it and decides not to. His son sent him a mug shot. He can stand to take the hit to his reputation that being given a tongue lashing by an old man will give him.

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	8. Chapter 8

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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(847): He showed up at my front door with Plan B and a rose...

"That," Tim blinks and stops. Tries starting again. "That is not romantic. That is the opposite of romantic. Steph. I need you to tell me the door got slammed in his face."

Stephanie is suspiciously silent and Tim closes his eyes and groans. "_Why?_"

"Because sometimes a woman doesn't need romance," Steph says with a snort. Defensive in a way that's usually Tim's job in their friendship. "Sometimes she just wants to have good sex with a good looking guy who will magically disappear in the morning and never be seen again. I mean, the rose was a bit much, but the rest? Exactly what I was looking for."

"You do realize you made me listen to you for four hours last week going on about how you're going to die alone, right?" Tim asks. His head hurts. Which is the fault of his caseload being insane and sleep being a sweet sounding myth to him, but he's willing to overlook that because this whole conversation doesn't make any sense to him. At all. "You just told me all about how you were getting tired of one night stands!"

"I was on my _period_!" Steph says and Tim cringes, but forces himself not to make a sound. He's always _very_ careful not to show how squeamish he gets about, well, the whole menstruation cycle around women. They can sense the slightest flinch and Tim has yet to see a woman not take full advantage of a man who can't handle it. He has female teammates. He's _seen_ the vicious glee they take when flaunting their periods around freaked out guys. "I get _mopey_ on my periods. Of course I cried on your shoulder. That's only a few days out the month though. I'm really not looking for a relationship right now."

"Well, then warn me next time, and I won't. Oh I don't know? Take what you're saying seriously?" Tim says as he leans back in his chair. Listening to it squeak and the sharp crack of ice shifting in his fridge in the kitchen.

"Well, gee," Steph drawls out. Sarcasm dripping off of each word. "It's not like it's something I can plan ahead. You know? Like it's a _regular cycle_ that repeats itself at _regular intervals_ for a set amount of time."

"I'm not memorizing your cycle," Tim lets himself grimace in the safety of his own home. "I have enough problems remembering your birthday."

"No you don't," Steph laughs. "You don't remember your own birthday. Everyone else's you have no problem with," which is true. Sadly. "Just put it on your calender or something if you're going to complain. Set a reminder so you can ignore me being whiny."

"Uh, _no_," Tim doesn't know what he'd do without the reminder notifications he gets off his phone. It has saved him countless times in the past year alone. Something that other people have noticed and have taken advantage of. Tam for one like to program reminders for Tim to eat along with meetings he has to attend. Dick programs stupid jokes into it, timed to go off when Tim's always the busiest.

He doesn't want to think about either of them going through his phone and finding Stephanie's _period_ set as a reminder.

"Well, then, stop bitching," Steph says, and Tim makes a note to go through his phone for the next few weeks and make sure some stray reminder hasn't been put in there when he wasn't looking.

"Only if you tell me it was worth it," and mean it. Tim listens hard and is rewarded with a laugh.

"Oh, and _how_!" Steph sounds relaxed and happy. Something that has been in short supply these past few weeks, and Tim relaxes a little. "Why? You want the details?"

"Absolutely not," Tim denies. They're close. Disturbingly close for their history, but they're not _that_ close. Just knowing that they're both alright and happy is good enough for them both. Tim hangs up on Steph's laughter and gets back to his cases.

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	9. Chapter 9

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_ (337): Duuuude someone spilled hot sauce all over the floor and trailing outside wtf _

_ (337): OH GOD IT'S BLOOD. THIS IS ALOT OF BLOOD. _

The phone barely rings once before Tim picks up and demands, "Where's Rose?"

"What do you mean, where's Rose?" Kon asks and his voice does _not_ rise. At all. "You think she did this? Is she out there waiting to-"

"Get Rose," Tim orders, using his Robin voice, the one that always makes Kon shut up and _listen_, "and put her on the phone. She's less likely to panic on me."

"Panic!?" Kon is a superhero. He does not panic. Not even when he wakes up at ass 'o clock in the morning and slips in a blood trail. "I am not panicking! Excuse me for being just a little worried that there's a _trail of blood_ going through the Tower that ends in a huge pool of even more blood!"

It's a valid point that he's making to dead air because Tim, the son of a bitch, hung up on him. Kon nearly crushes the phone out of spite, but it's his phone and he'll have to replace it if he does.

"Yes, there's a trail," he hears Rose say from inside, and Kon turns to go back in. He meets her in the hall leading from the entertainment room. She looks tired as she follows the trail, phone pressed to her ear and stifling a yawn. Like a huge blood trail is nothing.

It probably isn't. To her or Tim, but they're both scary freaks and should know to adjust their expectations down for normal people. She gives him a look as she passes him. Humming to something Tim's saying about the freshness of it all. "No, it's still tacky," she says as she drags her big toe through some spots. "It's strange. There's no smell at all."

"Smell?" Kon trails after her listening to Tim hum thoughtfully on the other end of the line, and gets ignored as she goes out the door.

"Well, it's not a person," she says as she circles the end of the trail. A puddle of blood that kind of ripples under the breeze. "I'd say there's enough blood here for two people if you drained them of every last drop."

"Oh," Kon feels a little sick, but he can clearly hear the heartbeat and breathing of everyone in the Tower. No one is missing. No one is hurt.

Rose stops and leans over to look into the puddle. Tilting her head like she's looking into a mirror and starting to look interested in this as Tim starts throwing guesses out. "Four would be my bet," she agrees, "I still don't smell anything from it though. It looks like blood, and feels like blood but, hm."

A calculating look crosses her face and she kneels down. Touching a finger to the pool and bringing it up to-

"No!" Kon spins around and heads back into the Tower. Calling over his shoulder, "That's _sick_!"

He can't stop himself from hearing when she informs Tim, "It tastes sweet. Kind of like sugar."

"No, no, nope!" Kon heads back to his room. Ignoring the trail and continued conversation as best he can. Today is not a day he'll be part of. He's going back to bed and sleeping through the rest of it.

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	10. Chapter 10

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_ (505): I swear you won't find cereal in your washer machine again. _

"Didn't Lian like the way her clothes smelled for the rest of the week though?" Dick asks because he does vaguely recall that happening.

"That's besides the point. I'm still trying to figure out _how_ you got it in there in the first place," Roy says, which is fair. Dick doesn't really have an answer to give him other than the fact that it'd seemed like a good idea at the time.

"I think it was Gar," or Vic. Probably both of them, because they have a surprising capacity for being full of bright ideas when they're the only sober people at a party. "And, let's face it, I've done stupider things while drunk than try to fit into a washing machine."

"No, Dick, you don't understand," Roy turns and grabs his shoulder. Shaking him slightly and giving him a hard stare. Trying to impress some seriousness into a conversation that's all about their lack of dignity. "I don't know how you got that cereal in there because _we didn't have any cereal in the house_."

Huh, well that is a little more understandably strange. "Uh, maybe I-"

"_No_," Roy cuts him off and it's very clear to Dick that he's been thinking about this since it happened. Over six months ago. "We didn't have any cereal at all. The only things brought into the house were pizza and beer. You didn't leave the house at all. No one left the house. No one stopped by. I don't know how you got that cereal into the washer, Dick."

"Oh," Dick tries to remember, but draws a complete blank. The night is a blur and he remembers a lot about it, but the source of the cereal box he clearly remembers eating from is not one of those things. "I don't remember where I got it. That's a little creepy."

"No shit," Roy shakes his head and backs off. Seemingly able to shake the whole mystery off as well. "So, pizza and beer at my place?"

"Sure," Dick frowns at Roy's back unable to let it go as easily, and he calls himself seven different kinds of paranoid even as he plans the angle of the cameras he's putting up along with the amount of pizza they're going to need. "Sure, Roy, see you Friday."

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	11. Chapter 11

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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_(440): Hey I was just wondering if you could go look for my teeth?_

Dick contemplates the text for a good half hour before calling. "I need to know if I'm supposed to actually be looking for _your_ teeth, or just teeth that you've _claimed_ as yours."

Jason yawns right into the phone, and if he was trying to sleep he shouldn't have texted Dick in the first place. "Teeth that I'm going to be claiming as mine as soon as I find a reason for it."

"Ah," it's one of the many interpretations he'd thought of before calling. Reassuringly it's the third one he thought of. "So, any particular teeth I should be on the look out for?"

"Molars," Jason grunts. "Back right or left, I don't really care which side. They're going to show up at the Kicks bar tonight sometime around tenish."

"I can do that," Dick agrees easily and doesn't ask for more information. They're probably drug runners and it'll be easy to sort them out in the bar. "So, what're you going to be doing that's keeping you from doing it yourself?"

"I'll be miles away burning their storehouse to the ground while they're celebrating," Jason sounds happy and pleased with the thought, and Dick knows he's going to take his time to do a proper job of burning it. He might even take the time to laugh manically.

"Gotcha," Dick grins fondly into the air. "See you tonight little wing."

.

.


	12. Chapter 12

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

_(973): I just woke up to three voicemails from you. In the first one you just straight laughed for 3 minutes. In the second you did bird calls. In the third you were hysterically crying. Have fun last night?_

"Yes," Dick, eventually, says and it's more a question than an actual statement.

"You don't even remember, do you?" Tim asks even though the answer is really obvious to him from the way Dick hasn't moved one muscle from his position on the couch. Face firmly planted in the cushions, one arm hanging off the couch, and his legs curled up in a way that looks uncomfortable from the angle of his back.

"I remember there was a last night," Dick eventually manages to say. Voice muffled and labored because he can't really be breathing right in the position he's in. "That's better than I usually manage."

Tim's really not looking forward to the days when his team will see drinking as something that's a socially acceptable thing to do. Right now they're all still underage and see drinking as a form of rebellion to be done in secret. It's only a few more years until that's no longer the case though, and he's still woefully behind on building up a tolerance that will stand up to drinking games.

Though Dick's been at it for years now and doesn't seem to have one either.

Tim sets the bucket that Dick bought specifically for mornings like this next to the couch. Dick had been optimistic when he set it next to his bed before going out. Tim slots a few bottles of water between his back and the couch, and plops a wet towel on the back of Dick's head. "I have to be at work five minutes ago. Call Damian if you need anything else. I'm sure he'll only mock you a little for it."

Dick makes a noise that Tim takes as agreement and doesn't move. Politely waiting for Tim to leave before upsetting the careful balance he has going with his body that's keeping him from puking everything up. It'll only take one twitch to have Dick on his knees over the bucket. Tim's been in that position before, unfortunately, and understands it all to well.

Tim sighs and pats the couch because jostling Dick right now is not a good idea, "Come by the office when you can."

Dick makes another vague noise and Tim leaves him to enjoy his hangover in peace.

.

.


	13. Chapter 13

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

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(225): Ive never seen him vulnerable before. He just had surgery and looked so cute on his crutches. like a little baby bird with a broken wing. that i wanted to nurse back to health. with my vagina

"And what prompted you to _share_ this with me?" Tim feels compelled to ask after a totally appropriate horrified silence.

"It's just a warning little Red," Babs says and she's going to start laughing the second she hangs up. If not sooner. "Beware the nice people who hold the doors open for you to hobble your way in to work."

"She's three times my age!" Tim doesn't wail. He _doesn't_. "I know that's shallow, but she reminds me of someone's grandma! I thought she went home and baked pies for the neighborhood or something. Not."

Gossip with a slew of other women about what exactly they'd like to do to him if they ever got him tied to a bed. Tim's having Misery inspired flashes now. He's not looking forward to morning when he's going to have to look Margaret in the face and smile when she fusses over him.

Babs tsks softly, "You're a media darling, Tim, you're going to have to get used to this eventually. It only gets worse from here on out."

Which is so true it's not really funny. He's going to be envying Jason's status as being dead by the end of the year. Especially if Babs keeps sending him things like this. "Yeah, but can you _not_ send me people's private texts? A little ignorance never hurt anyone."

"Oh, Tim," and Babs sounds _fond_. The kind of fond that he's grown to associate with teasing and hair ruffling over the years. "Do me a favor and skip reading tomorrow's news paper alright?"

"Why?" Tim asks slowly even though he knows, _knows_, he's going to regret it.

"Private texts aren't private when you send them to news outlets asking for opinions on certain public figures," Babs says and in that instant Tim knows that she's been holding back. That she's got a whole lot more saved up and was showing restraint when she sent only one.

She lets him sit there and whimper for a good two minutes before firmly saying, "No, you can't curl up and hide from the world. Just skip the paper in the morning and stammer adorably for the cameras when someone asks about it. You'll be fine."

Jason has _no idea_ how lucky he is.

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.


	14. Chapter 14

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

_ (720): In my next life I better get to be a bird. Fuck flying. I'm gonna shit on your car. Every. Day. _

Dick's laughing. No, he's _howling_. He's bent over, clutching his stomach and nearly crying from it. He's getting to the point where breathing is becoming difficult, and is minutes away from it being painful.

Tim's eyes are narrowed to furious slits, and the glare would be solely on Dick if he weren't so obviously offended and giving his phone his full attention. "If you so much as lay one flea bitten, feather on my car..."

Jason's snort tests the limits of the speaker phone, distorting a bit before he says, "And you'd better get used to having an umbrella, fucker. Cause your perfect little princess do will be next. Every. Single. Day."

Tim looks more upset by the debatable threat to his car than his hair. Which Dick knows is a close competition, but his car will always win. Always. "I would shoot you down and roast your feathered butt, Jason. Don't even think about touching my car in _any_ life."

"Oh? Why, what're you going to do, baby bird?" Jason taunts and Dick can picture the exact degree of smirk he's wearing just from his voice. "Not like you've done anything about it before."

"Before. Did you," Tim starts then stops. Something like horrified realization flashing across his face. "Did you shit on my car before? Was that, was that you!?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jason says in a tone of voice that screams he knows everything Tim's talking about.

Tim's face goes pale then turns red and he hunches over the phone and hisses, "Jason, you son of a bitch-"

Dick slowly sinks to his knees. Still clutching his stomach and wheezing. Feeling the pain now and unable to stop as his two little brothers start screaming at each other through speaker phone. God, he _loves_ his family sometimes.

.

.


	15. Chapter 15

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

_(843): Apparently mr clean magic erasers don't clean blood off the ceiling_

_._

_._

"Well," Stephanie finally admits as she climbs down off the ladder. Her shoulders ache a little and she needs a break. "I don't think you're getting your security deposit back for this one."

"I don't _care_ about the security deposit," Tim says as they stare up at the ceiling. "I care about the police hunting me down to have a few words about suspicious blood stains the land lord called them about."

"We could paint it?" Steph suggests, because she's officially out of ideas at this point and time. If Mr. Clean isn't strong enough then she has no idea what else they can do. "Did you let the blood dry up there? How long has it been since it got there anyway?"

"Um," Tim blinks and squints up at the stains. His eyes flicker as he obviously calculates angles and trajectories. Steph waits patiently. Only a little surprised that Tim's lived in this apartment long enough to have to really think about it. He's usually more transitory than that. "Ninjas. It was ninjas in October sometime."

"Huh, well I say we paint it because we're not cleaning that off now," Steph drops the wet cloth loaded with chemicals she'd been using while Tim broke out the magic erasers, and turns to the kitchen. "At this point it's become part of the ceiling. What I want to know is why you didn't clean it off immediately."

Tim isn't as OCD as she likes to tease him for being, but he is a bit of a neat freak about certain things. Anything that might rot or be a biohazard gets cleaned up immediately, but piles of paper and folders can grow their own civilizations of dust bunnies before he'll so much as look at them.

"Well, I had to take care of the ninja infestation at the time," which would be more impressive if Gotham didn't get invaded by wandering ninja every few weeks, "and I sort of forgot it was all there. I mean, it's on the _ceiling_. I didn't really look up until it was too late."

"I've got a suggestion," Steph says as she looks over the cans of paint Tim bought because it's cheaper than hiring a cleaning crew that won't ask too many questions about all the suspicious holes they're patching in the walls. Tim slumps in the door, a brush and roller in his hands, and looks at her. "Tack a tarp up on the ceiling of your next place. Especially if you're going to hang around it until your lease is up."

Tim blinks and smiles ruefully, "Is it sad that I probably will?"

"No," Steph pushes him out the door and back to the ladder. "It's sad that it's going to actually work."

After all, she would know. She's been making extensive use of tarps in her last two apartments and hasn't had one single regret yet about it.

.

.


	16. Chapter 16

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

_(720): I'm officially no longer allowed to make any of my own decisions regarding alcohol, men, or the combination of both. Thats up to you now. Do me proud._

.

.

_How will I do that from here?_

Steph gets Cass' text at an awful time of the morning that just shouldn't exist. Ever. She ignores it and goes back to sleep. She waits for a much more reasonable time after noon to reach for her phone and send a response.

_You can do it. I have faith in your abilities._

It's several hours later before she gets an answer. Even with a network that's nothing short of amazing, there are still time differences to account for. Also there's the fact that Cass probably isn't in the part of Asia she likes to let them all pretend she is. At least, that's the feeling Steph gets from how no one's been able to get a solid answer on her location out of her lately.

_Fine. Send pictures._

Which is Cass willing to give this insane plan her best shot. Steph types out a quick question before bundling up to brave the wind for groceries. _Sure, but will you get back to me fast enough to make my decisions?_

She get's an answer before she's even out the door.

_If they are pictures. I will._

.

.

It's the best decision that Steph's ever made. Giving Cass control over her alcohol and man intake.

Steph sends a picture of a grinning blond man to Cass, and then lets him continue to his best to talk her into a drink. He smiles and laughs when she tells him about her new rule and buys her a martini anyway. Cass doesn't even take a minute to respond.

_No. Married. Go with man behind him._

Sure enough, when Steph actually looks, there's an indent on his ring finger. The skin just discolored enough to be equally telling. She skips out on him and the martini, and finds out that the thin and kind of geeky looking man behind him is actually a very good dancer.

.

.

There's a row of neon colored shots on the bar that's too long for her camera to fit in one picture and Cass responds in seconds.

_Call Tim. Then down it all._

By the time she's tilting back from the force of slamming the last shot Tim's already there to catch her before she ends up on the floor. "Really?"

"Cass makes the best decisions," Steph grins up at him and gives a thumbs up to the cheering crowd that'd gathered to watch her. "No puke!"

"How about we focus on keeping it that way," Tim says and they're in his car. Steph's not sure how that happened, but it's got to be magic. Tim's magic. Just like his sister. Steph pulls out her phone to tell Cass this.

She wakes up on Tim's couch in the morning feeling like absolute death and a message from Cass apparently in response to the random mash of letters Steph sent the night before.

_Might have been a bad decision. Worth it though._

Steph almost laughs, but the warning pang in her head stops her. She sends a text instead.

_Yeah, and I'm paying your tab when you come to visit so you can experience it too._

She sends it off then holds the camera up to take a selfie and sends that too. Sprawled out on a couch in all her hungover glory with smudged makeup and creases on her sick looking face. But grinning.

Cass responds in seconds with a picture of her own. It's dark where she is and she has some bruised looking dude in a headlock while another comes from behind with a wicked looking knife. She's grinning too. Steph can tell from the crinkle around her eyes.

Best decision ever.

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.


	17. Chapter 17

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

_(720): I just ran your car into a ups truck...but on a up note I have a handle of fireball and breakfast burritos_

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.

Bruce pauses and blinks. Looks up at Dick, who does in fact have a bottle in one hand and bag in the other, "Which car?"

"The blue one?" Dick says with an amount of carelessness that is all feigned as he sits down at the table opposite of Bruce. Dick knows exactly which car he wrecked, knows them all by model and year, but he's always likes acting like he knows nothing. Bruce had thought it was a way to rile Tim up before. "Not really sure, I guess the cops will know though when they show up."

"Did you run?" Bruce asks even though it's patently clear that is exactly what he did.

Dick nods and mumbles around a mouthful of egg, sausage, and tortilla. "Yep."

Bruce reaches over and twists the cap off the bottle. "Well, hurry up and drink that before they get here."

Dick obligingly starts taking long pulls between bites of a second burrito. As far as distractions go a Wayne kid drunk crashing a car is barely a blip to the media anymore, but it just might be enough to distract them from their current line of questioning how quickly Tim Drake has been recovering from being shot.

"Do I need to get some brandy?" Bruce asks when Dick finishes the bottle with a long swallow that looks like it hurts. If they can throw a picture of Dick throwing up on the arresting officer's shoes on the internet even Vale might give it enough of a rest that Bruce can get an official enough sounding doctor to sign off on surgery papers he never preformed.

Dick blinks and holds very still. Assessing himself before shaking his head, carefully. "Nah, I'm good, just," he looks down at the bag and grimaces. "Maybe I should finish these closer to the front door? I don't think I'm going to be able to keep them down much longer."

It's a reasonable enough demand. Bruce grabs the bag while Dick gets the empty bottle and they make their way to the front. Dick swaying just slightly enough to show he's starting to feel the effects. Bruce hands over the bag and helpfully opens the door for the cops who will no doubt be by as soon as they finish drawing straws over who is going to actually be the arresting officer.

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	18. Chapter 18

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

_(781): Who are you, and why are you in my phone as Elf on the Shelf_

.

.

Tim looks at the message and can think of all sorts of reason as to why he'd be called that, but can't think of who might be texting him from that area code about it. He debates just blocking the number but he's actually curious now. _Depends. I have many answers to that question. Who is this?_

_No way, pal, I asked first._

The response is immediate and Tim opens a program on his laptop. Typing in the unknown number and letting it run before typing out his own response. _Well, I don't give my name out to strangers so I guess we're at an impasse here._

_But why would I call you Elf on the Shelf? Is that a thing?_

It's almost eerie how fast this person responds. Tim's fairly sure he can't type that fast on an actual keyboard. He wonders what Bart's doing, but then scraps that thought because this person is too rude to be Bart. Plus Bart would never ask for a name, he'd just assume Elf on the Shelf _was_ Tim's name.

_You don't know what and Elf on the Shelf is,_ his program pings and Tim checks the name listed on the screen quickly, Booster?

Tim has enough time to wonder how the man might have gotten his phone number waiting for the next text. He can't think of any good reason at all, and there's too many unreasonable ways he could have gotten it for Tim's peace of mind.

_Who IS this?_

_Red Robin._ Tim answers honestly because it's funny, but not funny enough to drag it out. _How'd you get my number?_

_No idea. That's why I was asking. What's an Elf on the Shelf?_

Tim has three projects reaching their deadline, and any number of open cases he should be working. Most of which is laid out on the desk before him or open in windows on his laptop. Tim ignores it and sits back. Getting comfortable as he starts to explain the horror that's the Elf on the Shelf.

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	19. Chapter 19

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

(585): When you left the bar, you did two cartwheels and a heel click and RAN ALL THE WAY HOME.

.

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"Huh," Dick doesn't even seem phased by the statement. "But how do you know I ran the whole way?"

"Because we followed behind you in a car," Stephanie says evenly, because Dick doesn't look the least bit hungover and she kind of hates him for that right now. "Tim tried to get you to get in the car, and Cass just kept laughing at you when you cartwheeled over things."

"And I didn't puke," it's not a question. It's a statement, like he knows he didn't puke, and it's a sadly truthful statement. "I'm impressed with myself. What was Jason doing?"

Jason had stayed at the bar. Flipped them off when Tim tried to drag him away and told them to have fun Dick hunting by themselves because he wasn't into that kind of thing. A blatant lie, but she knows he'd said it just to make Tim go red in the face. "Jason didn't come home with us."

Dick falls gracefully onto the couch next to her. Slow and fluid like a swan. He doesn't even smell that bad despite the fact that she knows he hasn't had time to take a shower yet. She hates him even more. How can he be this put together? How?

"Well, I hope he had the sense not to drive himself here," Dick muses, his words are slow and deliberate. The only indication that he's not 100% just yet. Steph looks at him and he explains, "Jason's passed out in the back yard."

"Oh," that makes a lot of sense actually. She grins and gets up from the couch. Stopping just long enough to tell Dick, "Tim said something about hosing off the back porch a few minutes ago."

"It's winter," Dick says but he gamely gets back up. He's slow and his movement isn't as graceful. Steph feels a little vindication. Petty and small, but she'll take it.

"I know, that just means he'll have to look for the hose first. I might be able to see it," Steph pulls her phone out and pulls up the camera because Cass is out with Alfred and will be sad to have missed this. She hears Dick following behind her.

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.


	20. Chapter 20

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

(908): I woke up to him "wax on, wax off"-ing my boobs. I just reminded myself that I love him and let it happen.

.

.

Anita does that thing where her lips quirk up like she wants to laugh but she doesn't actually vocalize it. Which Cassie is thankful for. It's _funny_ but it happened this morning and she's not ready to full on laugh at it just yet. She's got another hour or two of grumbling about what a dork he is before she's willing to concede.

Oshi shrieks as Don dumps a bucket of water over her head in the kiddie pool. It's a delighted shriek though and Greta's right there to prevent the obvious counter attack of an empty bucket to the face. The three year olds babble at each other around Greta in a language mash that Cassie still can't quite figure out despite how many times both Greta and Anita have told her what they're saying.

"You were kind of asking for it," Anita eventually says as she finishes deseeding some toddler sized cubes of watermelon. "You did give him the Karate Kid collector's edition for his birthday."

"It was bound to come up sometime," Cissie says as she eyes the sizzling meat patties on the grill. Poking them doubtfully with a shiny spatula. Pressing down on them, making juice run out to sputter on the coals. "Just be thankful it happened in private."

Anita snorts and reaches over to grab some of the carrots that Cassie has been rolling around instead of chopping them into smaller sizes. "Give it time," she predicts fatalistically and Cassie groans as she buries her head in her arms. Anita's right. Knowing Kon, it _is_ only a matter of time.

"Ita! _Ita!_" Cassie peeks up and looks past Anita at Oshi who has wandered up to the patio and is holding something fuzzy and black in one muddy hand. Her dark eyes wide and excited as she thrusts it up at Anita. A series of baffling sounds falling from her lips.

"He is fuzzy and tickley," Anita answers and wipes her hands on her jeans before reaching down to pluck the -caterpillar, it has to be one of some kind- out of the girl's hands. "But we don't want to hurt him, Oshi. Let's put him to bed in the garden. Ok?"

Cassie sits back up and reaches for the knife Anita had placed down well away from the edge of the table. Don's working intently on tying a bright yellow boat in Greta's hair, and Oshi is imperiously pointing exactly where she wants the caterpillar to go to Anita. It's a strangely peaceful image to her.

"You know he's probably going to do it during a meeting, right?" Cissie idly points out as she flips one of the burgers. Crowing in victory when it doesn't break apart.

"Oh, shut up," Cassie throws a carrot at her even though she's probably right.

.

.


	21. Chapter 21

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

(276): LESSON OF THE DAY: Saying Everclear gets you out of explaining anything.

.

.

Tim frowns and opens his mouth, "But-"

"Everclear," Cassie cuts him off. Saying the word firmly and only once. It's a combination of inflection and understatement that works wonders.

Tim obviously agrees and looks surprised by it. "How does that even work?"

"You tell me that as soon as you can figure out an argument that can win against it," Cassie says with a shrug as a chunk of robot flies through the air over them. Arching up just enough to clear the city and land safely in the harbor.

"That shouldn't be anywhere near as effective as it is," Tim mutters as he turns back to watch the fight. There's only one robot left and the team is obviously having fun taking it apart slowly. It's a showy one-upmanship of powers that they usually discourage, but the robots are just really too old to be a serious threat.

"I don't question it," Cassie says as Blue Beetle tries something and then looks confused as it obviously doesn't work. "I just use if for completely legal if slightly morally bankrupt reasons."

"Like what," Tim mutters and he's studying Blue intently. Cassie can almost see the training schedule he's putting together to make sure the guy doesn't fail the next time her tries whatever he just did. "Getting out of writing your essays?"

"That only works once," Cassie shakes her head sharply as another robot part sails over them. This one shedding small bit of debris as it goes. "It works great at explaining bruises, and ruined clothing though."

"You get bruises," it's a flat statement that she knows is really a question.

"Not a lot, but sometimes, yeah," it's unavoidable at times, and just all out more shocking to other people because it's so rare. "But all I have to do is say Everclear and I'm good. It even works on my _mom_."

"Right," Tim says before standing up. A strange sight in the new costume despite the fact that she's had years to get used to it now. "And how did telling your mom your new excuse go over?"

Cassie grimaces and slips off her perch to float down to the street. Tim following slowly. "Well, it went better than me telling her I had a god trying to kill me again."

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.


	22. Chapter 22

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

(540): I mean, "boo" isn't the appropriate response to someone dying...

.

.

Jason just gives him the flattest look. "Like they're going to _stay_ that way. Remind me again of any Super who's stay dead. That's right. None! They all come back."

"Well except for, oh, their entire planet," Tim chimes in from the mess of wires and boards that used to be a perfectly fine computer bank before he decided it needed an upgrade. "They're still dead."

"That's beside the point, both of you," Dick says before focusing back on Jason. "It's still a dick move. I mean, what if this is the one time when it doesn't happen?"

"We'd all be busy dying, because you know damn well it'd take a world ending disaster to permanently put one of them out to pasture," Jason says as he rolls his eyes. "I mean, even the human hybrid came back. Right?"

The sad part is that they can hear them having this conversation. Right now. Dick sighs. "Jason..."

There's a ping and Tim emerges from the wires to grab his phone. He taps the screen and looks at it a bit. "Huh, Kon says Kara isn't dead anymore."

"See? What'd I say?" Jason grins and Dick only wants to punch him a little.

"He also says you're a dick," Tim continues. His lips curling up slightly as he continues to read. "And he'll make sure to burn it on your tombstone next time you die."

"Hah!" Jason snorts and crosses his arms over his chest. His chin jutting out. "Joke's on him. Next time I die I'm getting my ass cremated, because fuck you all if you think I'm doing that shit again."

"But Jay," Dick frowns at the thought of it. He doesn't like talking about any of his family dying, despite any previous experience.

"Hell, no," Jason punches Dick hard when he reaches out to touch him. "I'm not waking up in a coffin again. Swear to fuck I'll implant incendiaries _inside_ my body if I so much as _think_ you're going to stick me in one of those boxes, Dick."

"But how would they be triggered?" Tim asks.

"I don't know. I'll wire them to my heart somehow," Jason shrugs the question off easily. "Whatever it takes."

"Hm," Tim looks _thoughtful_ and Dick has a sudden vision of being informed of Jason's regrettable death due to a botched procedure involving bombs and open heart surgery. "What if-"

"No," Tim and Jason both look at him with near identical pouts. "_No_! I swear to god I will murder you both and bring you back if you even _think_ about taking this further."

"You will not be using a Lazarus pit," Damian speaks up. Sudden and ruffled at the thought, and Dick turns on him as well.

"_Yes_, I _will_ use the pit," he looks slowly from one brother to the next. Fixing them each with a glare that actually seems to make them shrink back. "This subject is closed."

There's another chime a few seconds into the uncomfortable silence. Tim's eyes flick down, "Kon says we're all kinda messed up."

"Well, no shit," Jason says, and goes back to trying to glare holes into the side of Damian's head as Tim crawls back into his mess of wires. Dick lets it happen and resolves to have a talk with Alfred later. Just to make sure neither Tim nor Jason get a hold of some key pieces of equipment.

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	23. Chapter 23

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

(513): Fuck you, I'm yelling at a mountain right now

.

.

"I'm not a mountain. You're just a midget," the mountain grumbles as it glares down at him. It's an impressive glare, one that's obviously learned from a master and polished by many years of use. Ishido would be impressed if he were anyone else.

"You're a giant," and he'd love to embellish that descriptor, but the kids are in the house and they don't need to learn any new words from him this week. Anita keeps giving him soul crushingly _disappointed_ looks when Oshi starts singing a song she made up that is only her repeating the word 'shit' over and over again. "And you're refusing to leave my doorstep. Tell me again why I shouldn't _remove_ you from my yard."

The mountain looks annoyed and pissed beyond all reason. It's funny, but it also makes him lower his estimated age of him from mid-twenties to late teens. "Look I'm just here to pick up my brother."

Ishido has a pretty good idea who the mountain is here to pick up by now. Same coloring, general attitude of I-will-end-you-from-the-shadows, and a distinct reluctance to use names. The only difference is this one doesn't wear sunglasses big enough to use as sleds. He knows this one is here for the kid everyone still stubbornly calls Rob even though Ishido knows he's had a mask and name change.

"Sure!" Ishido smiles and the mountain grits his teeth, hand twitching to the small of his back in a real interesting way. Ishido feels the comforting weight of his own hidden gun and glances at the AK that's still safely tucked away in it's case. Just beside the door and out of sight of anyone outside. Locked behind breakable glass to keep the kids from playing with it. "Now, what was his name again? I don't think I caught it the first four times I told you to fuck off."

The mountain growls. Actually growls, but doesn't come up with a name. Real or fake because he obviously wasn't informed what name the former Robin was using. Ishido grins wider and settles in for a long block of playing the obfuscating asshole before one of his goddaughter's friends comes into the house and realizes what he's doing.

It's the most fun he's had since work sent him to Russia after a shapeshifting spy.

.

.


	24. Chapter 24

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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* * *

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(505): I'm concerned you might be passed out on a random rooftop right now. Not concerned enough to do anything about it. Hope you're alive. Goodnight.

.

.

"You didn't check!?" Dick repeats and his voice might be getting a bit loud. Just a bit as he tries to get a handle on the urge to strangle Jason.

"Like I said, not that concerned, Dick. Little Red's a big boy now. If he passes out somewhere on patrol he can take care of himself," Jason says, not looking away from the movie playing on the TV.

"He was passed out on the docks!" With a rat curled up on his back. Dick shivers a bit because, rats. He doesn't like them despite them being one of the most common animals in the city. "You could have at least told one of us!"

"Don't care," Jason grunts and looks annoyed as he focuses hard on the movie. Obviously pissed that Dick's interrupting him which is too bad. Dick moves so he's standing squarely in front of the TV. "Maybe if you all didn't run after Red so much to fucking _coddle_ him he'd learn not to work himself so hard he passes out on patrol. Now move your ass! I'm trying to watch this."

Alfred disapproves of bloodstains in the manor, Dick forcefully reminds himself. "You left Tim on the docks, Jay. He could have been killed!"

"I ran off anyone who might have been stupid enough to try something," Jason protests and leans around to try and look past Dick. "He was fine! You should've let him wake up on his own. Teach him to take care of himself better."

"That makes no sense, Jay!"

"Well, Tim makes no sense," Jason gives up trying to look around him and sits back to glare up at him. "How many times does this make anyway? Six? Eight? How many times has the happened that we _don't_ know about? It's pretty obvious what you're doing to discourage him from repeating the behavior isn't working. Why not try something new?"

"That's the kind of plan Bruce comes up with," Dick says and ignores the way Jason's grimacing at the jab. He deserves it because it really is something Bruce would think of. "And _you're_ telling Alfred why Tim came back smelling like rats."

"Hey, wait, what?" Jason yelps as Dick walks away. He can hear the couch creak as Jason moves and yells after him, "That's not fucking fair!"

.

.


	25. Chapter 25

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

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* * *

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(713): I don't know if your celebrity crush has ever asked you for nudes, but it's fucking awesome

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.

Cullen still has a demented grin plastered across his dazed face in the morning and keeps tripping over thin air. Harper snorts and kicks some shoes under one of the beds to save his face. "If you don't snap out of it you're going to get some really unattractive bruises."

"Best. Day. Ever!" Cullen insists and his grin only gets wider when his phone chimes. Harper yelps and ducks when he jumps for it.

"You're setting the bar really low there, bro," she says as his face pretty much crumbles when he realizes the sound is just the timer she set earlier when he was still fanboying. "Now, come on. Tone the smile down before people start thinking you got hit with Joker Venom, and I so don't want to see the school get thrown into lock down again this week."

"But, Harper, Tim-"

"Ah, ah! No!" Harper shakes her head slices her hands through the air emphatically. "Unless you're going to _share_ your illicitly traded goods with me, I don't want to hear any details. It's cruel leaving me to use my imagination."

Cullen laughs and manages to step into some shoes and grab his stuff for school without further prodding on her part. "But Harper," he starts and his grin is -finally- down to acceptable levels as she locks the door behind them. "How am I going to figure out which Wayne to give to you when I'm firmly in with them?"

"A pretty one will do," Harper says as they start to trudge down the stairs. Listening to the morning sounds seep out from the building as people get up and move around. "I'm not too picky since you took the prettiest one for yourself."

"They're _all_ pretty, Har-" the phone chimes again. This time it's the unmistakable sound of a text and Cullen makes a noise that Harper's ashamed to admit she heard. "He says good morning!"

Harper obligingly looks at the phone her brother is waving in her face and sighs. It's exactly what he says. Two words and nothing else. "Well," Harper prods when Cullen almost trips down the stairs because he's too busy staring at his phone with that demented grin again. "You going to say anything back?"

"Uh," Cullen looks up long enough to avoid a discarded newspaper. "I guess? Would that seem too eager though?"

"Too eager?" Harper nearly trips into a wall and curses as she regains her balance. "Cullen! You spent an hour in the bathroom last night taking nude photos to send him! How is saying good morning worse than that?"

"I dunno," Cullen slips the phone back into his pocket and shrugs at her. Not looking the least bit sheepish at all, and she's torn between being proud of him for it and wanting to question the world where her innocent little brother went. "Just seems like it would be, and I don't want to run him off until I at least get to go on an actual date with him."

"I thought you guys were dating," Harper stops to give her brother a suspicious look. "Isn't that what all that TV watching was? I thought it was the geek mating dance you two were doing."

"We were watching _Sherlock_!" Cullen sounds offended. Like he does every time she doesn't quiet understand some obscure reference he makes and has to explain it to her. "That's an _experience_, you can't just turn it into a date."

"Which is why I kept finding you sucking on his tongue every time," Harper rolls her eyes and just lets it go. She loves her brother, she really does, and she's happy for him but she will never fully understand him.

"That was a totally appropriate reaction for the episode!" Cullen says as he walks ahead of her. Quickly so she won't see how closely his face might match the red that's crawling up the back of his neck. "Benedict Cumberbatch was in a sheet!"

"Just text him," Harper follows slowly and lets him get his distance so he can do his little freak out in relative peace. She wonders if Tim is as weird as Cullen is too, and if she can use that to her advantage somehow.

.

.


	26. Chapter 26

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

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(937): I just remembered that you tried to trade me for a glass of wine

.

.

Dick looks furious. So does Alfred for that matter. Bruce doesn't really see the problem though. "If you had gone for it we would have been able to bug them a lot easier."

"Before or after I was tied up in their S&M dungeon?" Dick sasses back immediately with an honest to god pout.

"You _liked_ her," Bruce points out because Cathy Ried was a natural redhead and Dick is nothing but predictable.

"I was drunk!" Dick says, but doesn't actually protest his claim. "Really, _really_ drunk. Do you have any idea how humiliated I'd have been if I couldn't get it up!?"

Which is actually a valid point, but Alfred loudly clears his throat before Bruce can say anything in response. "I do believe we are straying from the point here gentlemen."

Bruce feels his shoulders go stiff under Alfred's glare, and Dick actually flinches.

"Playing drunk at a social event is one thing," Alfred starts on Dick first and Bruce doesn't feel the least bit happy about it. Alfred always saves his worst for last. "Actually being as drunk as you are pretending to be is a whole other matter, Richard. This is not one of your weekend visits to see your friends, and the messes you make are _mine_ to clean up."

"Sorry," Dick mutters sheepishly and doesn't offer to help. By now, Alfred has already cleaned up whatever Dick did. Instead he's going to have a whole list of absolutely mind numbing chores to do for the rest of the day. Things that Alfred deliberately puts off doing just for this reason.

"And," Alfred's voice rises and Bruce grimaces at the ire in the man's eyes when he turns. "How many times must we go over this? Your children are not commodities you can trade, sir. I do not care how foppish you must appear in public, or how much it will further one of your cases. You will not try to sell one of them for anything ever again! Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Alfred," it's still amazing to Bruce how the slightest raise in the older man's voice can make him feel like he's twelve all over again. Bruce knows that there's a list, somewhere in the manor, for him as well. This one filled with chores especially saved for him. Chores like stopping by the office to sort and file all the papers Lucius normally deals with, or going down to the police station to personally pay all of his tickets and apologize to the officers he's rubbed wrong for one reason or another.

"Good," Alfred gives them both one last disappointed look before shrugging on a coat. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have a few things that need tending to."

The wait for Alfred to leave before turning back to the kitchen. Dick enters first and goes for the cabinets where two pieces of paper are waiting. "I need a drink."

Bruce, after taking his list and looking it over, silently agrees.

.


	27. Chapter 27

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

.

(601): Literally just napped at strip club. Don't know how long

.

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"That's either the most boring or most interesting story I've heard all week," Jason finally says after a long minute of silent staring and judging. Tim doesn't feel the least bit embarrassed by any of it. "Please tell me you were there legitimately and passed out mid-lapdance. _Please_."

"I was placing wiretaps," Tim rolls his eyes. Strip clubs aren't Tim's idea of fun, though he doesn't mind them from behind the changing room doors. And that is something that Jason will _never_ know about. All of those mission reports are carefully filed under expense reports. Bruce can access them if he needs to, but no one else will ever see them. He gets enough flack for Caroline Hill as it is.

"You couldn't even lie for me, could you?" Jason goes back to watching the drug pusher he maimed and cuffed, and the man's brave attempt to get to the street from the alley. The man's managed to wriggle a whole five inches forward using the awkward caterpillar inching method. "How can you be so fucking lame? Dick has more interesting stories when he does his laundry. I hope you woke up drooling."

Tim doesn't drool in his sleep. That's the sole domain of Damian and Dick. And Bruce, but none of them ever tell him about it. "Dick waits until he's out of underwear and is down to the rattiest jeans and tightest shirt to do his clothes in a public laundromat. There's a hashtag on Twitter for when he's seen leaving his apartment with a hamper. You can't compare anything to laundry days, it's an unfairly high bar to set."

"Well if I set it high enough you just might make an effort to surpass it," Jason's rolling his eyes behind the mask. The man far below them is still. His back heaving as he pants from what has to be the most physical activity he's seen in years. Tim's actually curious if this will be enough to prevent a repeat performance. The man is a first time offender after all. There's a chance he could be smarter than the average man. "How the fuck do you even fall asleep in a strip club? The volume is insane in those places."

"It's kind of comforting actually," Tim shrugs at the blatantly incredulous face Jason gives him. "There's a beat to it that you can feel in your chest. It's surprisingly soothing."

Which is another aspect that he learned in the changing rooms. It's easy for strippers to get nervous on stage, and one of the easiest ways to work through it -for Tim at least- was to concentrate on the beat. To feel the music and focus on it so thoroughly it chased all thoughts away. It was a surprisingly effective lesson that Tim has applied to many situations.

"Freak," Jason declares when the man starts inching his way forward again. Getting closer to the invisible mark that Jason had marked earlier. The point when they'd drop down again and really scare the life out of the man. Tim's fairly sure this will be the man's last night trying to break any law. "_Boring_ freak."

Tim shrugs and lets the matter go. They've got a good fifteen or twenty minutes to kill before the man makes the mark. Plenty of time to explain how not boring Tim actually is, but he rather likes being seen that way.

.


	28. Chapter 28

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

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(612): I got a blow torch for Christmas. You are now permitted to be afraid.

.

.

Tim doesn't see his life flash before his eyes or anything cliche like that, but it feels like it should have happened. "Who gave it to you and why did they think it was a good idea?"

"Bruce," Jason says, because _of course_ it was Bruce. Who else would think it was a good idea to give Jason something that was designed to actually produce flames? As if the man didn't spend enough time modifying things that didn't have that ability as it is.

"Bruce makes _terrible_ decisions."

"Yep, I blame Christmas," Jason leans back against the wall. An entirely too satisfied smile on his face. "He gets panicked about it and just starts throwing money around and wrapping it all up. Doesn't matter if it's a good idea or not. He just wants the whole thing over with."

Which explains both the kind of manic look Bruce got half way through the month, and why Tim can get a really sweet car for his birthday but opened up a package of plaid socks for Christmas. "Is that why Dick kept trying to sneak his gifts out of the manor?"

"Alfred only points out the really bad ones to be removed, but," Jason shrugs because his gift was probably one of the bad ones this year, "Dick's only one man and it's harder than you'd think getting one out past Bruce."

"Especially if it's the size of a blow torch," Tim sighs and wonders if he's going to have to worry about his safety. He stops, considers Jason smile that just won't stop, and rethinks that thought. He wonders _when_ he's going to have to worry about his safety. And whether or not he'll actually be in uniform when it happens.

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	29. Chapter 29

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

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(586): You, me, naked, mistletoe, fifth of jack, gallon of lube, condoms, Cheetos, handcuffs, rope, along with no morals, inhibition or judgment. That's all I want for Christmas.

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The phone rings for a long time, and Dick knows that Jason is on the other end just staring at it in absolute horror. He grins and nearly lets himself laugh now, but Jason chooses that second to pick up. The line is silent and Dick let's it drag well beyond what he should if he were the kind of older brother his siblings all want instead of the one they actually have.

"So," Dick drawls and he can _feel_ Jason bracing himself, "should I assume that was sent to the wrong person, or should I return what I actually got you to the store?"

"Dick," and that right there. The barely suppressed wail of anguish is what makes being a big brother so worth it to Dick. Even when Jason rallies quickly and continues in his usual I-could-give-a-fuck tone. "Go fuck your self. Course that was for someone else. Who'd want your ass anyway?"

There are so many ways Dick can take the conversation from here. He can give an extensive list on who exactly wants his ass, he can ignore Jason's denial and 'talk' to him about his repressed feelings, or- "And who's ass is it that you actually want, Jay? Literally, because if you need a _gallon_ of lube for anything but anal I'm going to have to reteach you about the joys of foreplay."

"That's none of your fucking business," Jason starts out slow. Working up to what promises to be a blistering rant that will do absolutely nothing to deter Dick from repeating his question until Jason gives into the inevitable and told him a name.

"Is that Jason?" Tim pauses outside the door to the room. Head cocked as he listens to the cursing that can be heard quite clearly past the phone's speaker.

Dick nods paying more attention Jason's increasingly inventive descriptions of exactly what Dick can do to himself. Tim comes into the room and leans against the couch. "Great," he raises his voice enough so that it can be heard through the phone. "Can you ask him what he wants for Christmas for me? I texted him an hour ago and he hasn't replied yet, and I need to get that shopping done today."

"Fuck," Jason says. Breaking into the perfect silence that Dick's mind has descended to. So quiet he hadn't even noticed Jason had stopped talking until that single word.

"Dick? Are you alright?" Tim looks alarmed as he leans down. Morbid curiosity warring with worry across his face. "Wow, I've never seen you go that pale before. Jason, what did you do to him?"

There's a loud and obvious click that startles Dick out of his numb daze. Dick pulls the phone away and confirms that, yes, Jason did just hang up on him. He looks up and Tim blinks at him. Confused and a little wary. He smiles but it doesn't seem to relieve his little brother who looks like he's considering going for the sedatives.

"An icepack. He wants some of them, better buy in bulk. And for me," Dick stands up slowly enough not to startle Tim as he starts planning routes and estimating how long it's going to take him to hunt Jason down. "Get me some brain bleach."

.


	30. Chapter 30

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

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(330): Do you know how much wine is in a box of wine? Not so much an amount, but whether it will kill me if I drink the entire box this xmas

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"You are at Bruce Wayne's manor," Steph says when Tim picks up. "I demand to know why you're asking about _boxed_ wine."

"Because Alfred's keeping the wine cellar key very close and every other bottle has already been claimed," Tim says. His voice is high and tight, and she knows he's doing that thing with his face that makes him look utterly calm until you see the muscles under his right eye twitch occasionally. "I am lucky to have found this box of Franzia, alright?"

Huh, Steph had been sure she took all her stuff out of the manor months ago. Maybe she missed something, or it's Dicks. It probably is Dick's if it'd been hidden. Steph had always just put her stuff in the kitchen where Alfred told her to put it. It was the boys who persisted in hiding everything. "Well, I hate to say it, but I think you're going to live."

"What if I drank it in under five minutes?" Tim asks, hopeful.

"Then you'd be running for the bathroom on minute six," Steph smiles at Tim's groan. "Just wake up an hour early and drink it before breakfast. You won't die but you'll be pretty buzzed until noon."

"Do you have any idea what an hour early entails here?" Tim asks absolutely horrified.

"Well, sleep deprivation will make the buzz that much better," there is a reason Steph isn't at the manor right now, and it's not solely for the fact that she wants to spend the morning with her mom. "I thought you were going to camp out with Cass this year?"

"Cass turned traitor on me," Tim groans again, and his voice sounds muffled. She kind of wants to tell him to hang up and Skype her because Tim's face must be a hilarious sight right now. "She's harboring Damian."

"Well, you have to admit he's got a better case than you in this."

Tim's silent for a few minutes. "How?"

"Because until you overprotective grumps loosen up, he's not allowed to crawl into a bottle," Steph points out and graciously doesn't point out how stopping the sixteen year-old from drinking smacks of so much hypocrisy.

"He's _sixteen_!" Tim protests and Steph rolls her eyes. Hard.

"Well, there you go. He's not allowed to drink so Cass is going to give him shelter over you. It's called _mercy_, Tim."

"She's still a traitor," Tim stubbornly insists. He goes quiet and Steph can hear him moving things around. "I've got Listerine. Would that work if I drank it before or after the wine?"

"If you're that desperate just sneak out and raid someone's party," there's bound to be some event going on way out there.

"You're not helping me here, Steph," Tim whines but he's also laughing, and probably looking out the window for any tell-tale bright lights of a party.

"Whatever, Boy Wonder," Steph flops down on her bed and listens to the quiet of the house. "Just do your raid and take a nap. I'll see you for dinner tomorrow."

"Sure, avoid the worst of it, Girl Wonder," there's a scrape of a window opening and Steph can hear the wind now. "Night."

Steph hangs up and flips onto her stomach. Contemplating the time on her phone before sighing. Only four more hours before her body would actually begin to feel tired. Sometimes she hated her job. Not a lot, but just sometimes.

.


	31. Chapter 31

**Texts From Gotham  
**

**A Word**: All texts taken as is and unaltered from the TFLN database. Drabbles may or may not be loosely connected. Just assume they're not as pairings and what not will change to reflect the specific texts used as inspiration.

.

* * *

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(+44): Though I do have to question why i found you and my brother passed out on his bedroom floor, no clothing between you except his tie wrapped around your dick

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.

Roy hasn't actually met the newest little brother Dick hasn't been able to shut up about, and that's a damn shame. Mostly because this really, really shouldn't be the first impression anyone has of him. Some people -_Wally_- might say it's the most informative impression anyone can make about him, but he'd rather at least be conscious when he makes such a colossal screw up.

"Uh," Roy stalls for time because the boy looks like he actually expects an answer out of him. He does look like a creepy little Bruce clone with his intense eyes and frown that Roy swears is a mirror image of the man's default face.

Damian arches an eyebrow. A wordless demand for an explanation, and how the kid can pull it off while eating _Fruitloops_ has to be that bat thing that's inherited with the Robin mask or something.

"Yeah, I don't have an answer for that kid," Roy says as he takes careful sips of his coffee and wonders where the hell Dick is. He swore he'd be down right after Roy almost an hour ago. If he finds out Dick somehow _knew_ Damian walked in on them and was going to conduct an interrogation on it Roy's going to have to reconsider their mutual prank cease fire agreement.

"How can you not have an answer?" Damian snaps. His forehead wrinkling in obvious frustration and distaste. It's a cute look on the kid, just like Dick always says, but Roy is kinda psychic. He can see a future where Damian gets bigger and that look abruptly goes from cute to assholish. "You were there. You must know!"

"Well, Captain Morgan and Jamison was there too. So," Roy lets that sentence trail off and starts to lay out a few simple pranks to get started on because Dick has _clearly_ abandoned him to his fate.

Damian's nose wrinkles up in disgust and he makes a noise. A harsh click of his tongue that expresses even more disgust. He looks like one of those dogs that are all wrinkles and folds of skin, except a puppy one. With sharp teeth. "The two of you are drunken fools! I hope you learned something from your idiocy."

Roy grins because -despite his hangover and his plans to main Dick's hair- he suddenly gets _why_. He gets why Dick goes out of his way to pick Damian up and _throw_ him into every situation he can. Roy wants to see this kid at a rave in civilian clothes. Wants to see him at school getting asked to prom by the sweetest, shiest girl in the school. He wants to see him in front of a camera when Bruce is playing an airhead, and being _cooed_ over by the really old rich ladies.

Why? Because seeing this kid interact with the world must be comedy gold.

Damian is giving him a hostile, but wary stare. "Why are you smiling like that? You look like Grayson when he's planning something idiotic."

The kid is inching away but trying not to appear like he's retreating. It's obvious that something in Roy's expression has triggered a well deserved fight or flight instinct in him. Just as obvious as the fact that Damian has chosen fight. Roy grins wider, "I got a daughter you know. She's about your age..."

He forgives Dick's abandoning him because it's obvious now that he'd been wanting Roy to share in this. Roy doesn't even pay much attention to what he's saying as he dumps all the pranks he'd drawn up and starts planning. A trip to Disneyworld isn't something that one just does on the spur of the moment after all. Especially not when one is planning on bringing two kids along for the ride.

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End file.
